PUA/Game: The Varieties of Whoring Experience: Thieving Whores, Transactional Sex Whores, and Real Whores

SHI: Dude can use his girlfriend/wife as a money minting machine. I wouldn’t mind a stripper for LTR. I am as depraved as they come.

What if she doesn’t hand me over her money? I’ll just be a good pimp and beat her ass till she’s bleeding all over. I’ll fucking kill her if my ATM plans to dump me.

I wish though I were this bad though. Unfortunately I can only talk.

Those are the type of guys stripper types usually end up with, frankly. Their boyfriends are usually glorified pimps (“managers”), criminals, and often hard drug users, often dope shooters who use needles. The women’s relationships with these men are quite tumultuous, and I think they are often accused of taking the women’s money.

I very briefly dated a woman who wanted me to get her into porn and I guess be her manager. She was Black and was also a former call girl and strippogram girl.

I actually picked her up right off the street in Century City amidst the skyscrapers. Not as a whore, more as a secretary on lunch break, which is exactly what she was. She smiled and waved to me, so I pulled over. She said she was just going to get some lunch, and would I like to get some? I said sure and she jumped in. I asked why she waved me down, and she said, “Because you’re cute! I was looking for a cute guy to go to lunch with,” flashing a grin as wide as an LA freeway.

I said ok, and we had lunch on Sunset Boulevard in some place across from the Whiskey A-Go-Go. The waitress was staring at me like a robot the way they always do when you’re with a hot chick. Women are like money. It takes one to get one,  and it takes some to get some. Either way you start at zero and you stay at zero. Then we made a date for later that night.

I met her at some barber shop in South Central where she was getting her hair cut later that afternoon.

There were some old school Black men there. One had an antique Coke machine, and I engaged him about it. He told me all about it and showed me another one. He was acting pretty strange the whole time but not unfriendly at all. Maybe wary and like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.  I later asked her about it and she told me that he didn’t like White men. He was nice enough to me but he did seem uncomfortable. I guess he couldn’t understand why I was so nice.

I talked to some other Black guy there about his dialect and suggested it sounded like Gulla. He told me that indeed he had come from South Carolina. Both of those Black men were pretty damn nice considering that White people never went there.

We went to her place where she lived with her Mom, but no one was home. She very suspiciously asked me for a contact number, which freaked me out just a bit, but I guess it makes sense, and I’m  well enough used to it anyway.

We men are always being suspected of being raping murderers. I gave her my Mom’s number because she wanted a contact number, I guess in case I murdered her and left her for dead in a ditch somewhere. Now why she cared what happened afterwards if I murdered her and left her in a ditch I have no idea, but perhaps she believed in postmortem justice.

So we took off for her friends’ apartment in the Wilshire District, an extremely mixed Black-White neighborhood at that time. She’s was talking about “rock cocaine” with this weird gleam in her eyes, and wasn’t not quite sure why that was.

We went inside and it quickly unfolded that this was a mixed group of young Blacks and Whites, apparently single and in their 20’s. They said they worked for the phone company. They were all smoking crack. This was very interesting as I’d never tried the stuff before and was curious.

This was 1986 and the first time I had ever tried crack. The drug had just come out and the press was full of all these over the top horror stories.

Well, back then I was a drug dealer myself, and most of the outlaw dregs and lowlifes I ran with didn’t believe any “drug war propaganda,” which we considered to be laughable scare stories. Sadly sometimes these scare stories are true.

This is where the War on Drug squares screwed up. They turned everything into a scare story, so we quit listening to everything they said. It was a Boy Who Cries Wolf scenario, and how did that story end? The wolf ate the lambs, and the dope ate some of us.

They were using glass pipes. One Black guy was on the carpet on his hands and knees, and he was pressing his forehead against the carpet like he was trying to be an ostrich, but he mistook a hardwood floor for a patch of sand. I’ve seen a lot of weird drug stuff, but that was disturbing. I was thinking, “What the Hell kind of drug is this, anyway?” I bought her a rock ($25) and we smoke it.

She sucked on the pipe like a deranged friend who was suffocating and grasping the last desperate breaths out of the pipe. I mean she was sucking on that pipe for dear life. That was downright disturbing right there. I mean if she wanted to suck my dick like that, she’d be a hero, but this was a Goddamned drug pipe!

I mean I had seen people jonesing and fiending before but mostly on pot, which was nothing like this. I had been a cocaine sniffer sporadically for nine years, especially in the last few years when I was running around LA with artists high on coke and weed, but they never jonesed or fiended like that, and I’d seen some fiends. Like out and out addicts.

We finished the rock and it was definitely an excellent high. Got me out of stupid neurotic self for about 15 minutes and then it was over. I was in  the bathroom pissing in a toilet and I saw her watching me in the doorway with lit-up eyes.  I was thinking, “That’s weird,” but that was when I first realized that females actually like to watch guys take a piss. I suppose to cock-watch. I can’t think of any other reason that’s not seriously twisted.

After 15 nice minutes, the drug wore off and I felt like crap. And more than anything else, I really wanted another damn rock to make the bad feeling go away. Which of course is the whole problem here, right? I caught onto the drug’s scam, and decided to just say no.

She was badgering me for another rock, but I was getting suspicious of this game already. She was acting like, “One more rock and then we can fuck,” but I was thinking this game could go on like this all night, and I was later told that it often does just that. And you never get a thing in the end no matter how many rocks you buy the bitch. It’s a heist.

As you might suspect she was the typical Thieving Whore type with a background as a Real Whore (Real Whores often double as Thieving Whores when they are feeling lazy or just more evil than usual), and I caught onto the “Buy me one more 20,” scam and ditched her. I went out to my car and sat there. She was supposed to join me but she never showed up, so I sat there like an idiot for 45 minutes holding my dick in my hand, feeling stupid, and getting increasingly angry.

These other Black people who were at the party showed up and told me that she was up there talking shit about me. I was thinking, “Ok, screw this bitch. She’s not getting a ride home. She can walk if she wants! It’s only ten miles away in the dark LA night! I’m sure she can make it without any problems at all!”

One of the group was a Black woman about 35 years old who looked pretty good. I went out and talked to them. She grabbed me and put her arm around me. “You come with me, baby,” so I went off with her. At one point we were in someone’s car she was shoving her tongue in my ear whispering dirty stuff while this other Black woman with her acted all grossed out.

We went up to their place, and it was another crack party. I bought her one too. The rock went around fast as the speed of light with everyone  hitting it like it was their last breath on Earth. It was creepy, weird, and actually pretty damn scary. By this time I was wise to the drug, and turned it down while I watched these maniacs suck it down like oxygen.

I looked around at the people in  the room. The people in there looked like zombies from a Night of the Living Dead movie, especially one Black man in his  40’s with black holes where his eyes were supposed to be. He has his head back on the couch with a thousand yard stare, looking like someone had suctioned his brains out, which is pretty much what had happened, except a drug did not and not a vacuum tube.

I was sitting there thinking, “This shit is literally the worst drug on Earth.” And this was my very first acquaintance with the drug called crack. As you can see, I’m not only not an idiot but I’m also a quick study.

Well, this other Black chick was all over me telling me it was her birthday and how we were going to get a hotel room and all this dirty stuff she was going to do to me. Then it turned into, “Buy me one more 20, and I get the room.” I had already heard that song before, earlier than night as a matter of fact. I kept shaking my head no.

At some point I was being escorted out of the apartment. The last I saw was a look of utter contempt on this Thieving Whore’s face. I was out $50 and all I got were a couple of makeout sessions. Lessons don’t come cheap in life.

Well, my Mom called me later the next day all freaked out, “Bob! What did you do to that girl!?” I had no idea what in God’s name she was talking about. I was like, “What?!” The woman’s Mom had called my Mom because that bitch never came home that night. Why?

Because I was her ride and I abandoned her halfway through a date and left her ass at an apartment in the Wilshire District when she lived in South Central. So I took her out on a date and stranded her halfway through the date with no ride home. I told you I’m a charmer. I told my Mom what happened, and I guess she called the woman’s Mom back.

I was pretty angry at my Mom for even suspecting that I would rape and murder some woman and leave her in a ditch somewhere. Not that this one particular woman didn’t deserve just that of course, but I don’t have it in me to do that, and of all people, my Mom ought to know for God’s sake. I’ll save that for my next life when I come back as a Serial Killer. Hopefully I can break Bundy’s record. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

So this is an example of a Thieving Whore. Thieving Whores are the worst women on Earth by far. I think most of them are psychopaths. Whores are pretty much psychopathic women anyway, and 45% of prostitutes are actual diagnosed psychopaths. The personality of The Whore (Histrionic Personality Disorder) is often considered to be nothing less than the female version of male psychopathy itself.

Thieving Whores dangle the sex or implied sex in a dating context, ask for money for something or other in the context of the date, get the money,  buy the stuff, promise the sex some more, and then vanish out the door without fulfilling their end of the bargain.

You’re left holding the bag on one hand and your dick in the other. You are $20-80 poorer and you got little if any sex out of it, or at least not what you were promised – you may have gotten a tit feel or a makeout session, but you were promised real sex, which is why you forked the money in the first place. These are far worse than actual whores who generally at least are not out and out thieves and at least give you something for your money.

These types are ubiquitous and they tend to be deep into ghetto culture. This is pretty much the only type of female who comes out of that culture. Obviously the Whore and Thieving Whore types are present in all races of women, but the Whore types are vastly more common among Black women, and the Thieving Whore types are drastically more common among Black women, with Hispanic women bringing up the rear of the gutter.

Yes, I have recently met a young White woman like this, but she didn’t get any money. As far as Whore types go, obviously there are White women like this, but there are a lot more Hispanic women, at least around here, which I found shocking.

Playing The Whore and the Thieving Whore is a young woman’s game. Young, attractive women play this role simply because they can. Older women do not play this role not because they don’t want to – they’d love to if they could get away with it – but mostly because they can’t. Now I love older women, but who’s going to pay big money for some 47 year old woman’s used up ass? Basically no one.

Not that a few don’t try, but they don’t charge much either. I am talking about the “Transactional Sex” Whores, not the Actual Prostitute Whores, which are another matter altogether.

I am not fond of Transactional Sex Whores because they pretend to be dating you when really they are nothing more than glorified Whores. They are all over dating sites looking to “date men,” but they are really just part-time prostitutes who engage in actual whoring and more commonly transactional dating out of their apartments.

Of the three – Thieving Whores, Transactional Sex Whores and Actual Whores – I actually much prefer the latter, as at least they believe in truth in advertising and give you something for your money. They are generally pretty straight up and honest, too. It’s a rare whore who steals from you.

The former two are thieves by nature, especially the first type. Not only that but these are female criminals who have devoted their entire lives to stealing from us men. To say they are the enemies of all of us men is an understatement. The fact that not only do these wenches exist at all, but more appallingly are everywhere you look makes the lie of the feminist idiocy that says we live in a patriarchy. I assure you that no true patriarchy would tolerate this silly crap for one second.

3 thoughts on “PUA/Game: The Varieties of Whoring Experience: Thieving Whores, Transactional Sex Whores, and Real Whores”

  1. Damn Robert that was some hard-hitting account. You’re lucky to have survived that night. It’s one of those bad signs we must avoid.

    I am through with all drugs after one of those fateful experiences in an Amsterdam hostel , I nearly died during the mushroom trip, they were very potent. I was having trouble breathing and couldn’t move an inch. Even my neck was paralyzed. And I bought that thing in a licensed shop, although in fairness the vendor did warn me to go for a lower dose first. I wouldn’t hear of it, am I a pussycat?

    That was my closest experience of death. When I woke up in the morning, I prayed to God for forgiveness. Damn, I’ve never done drugs again.

    1. That sounds terrifying but would you really have died? I am not sure that people actually die from those psilocybin mushrooms, though I could be wrong. Obviously you felt like you were going to die. I haven’t taken any drugs in some time. I suppose I will smoke pot again some day. But I only smoke it with women, and I have not been dating much these days.

      1. would you really have died?

        Those mushrooms had a delayed fuse, I mean I was laughing and having fun with girls just a while before that. I had mind-blowing sex with a Spanish girl just a few hours before. I was bragging about those mushrooms all the while. I consumed all of them together with hot coffee.

        After about 40-45 minutes, I dropped stone cold on my bed. Luckily it was indoors and there was a bed around. My limbs had been immobilized by then.

        I could see multiple realities with my open eyes. Elevators, staircases, hospital rooms. Those mushrooms can trigger some really deep-seated memories. I could clearly see the hospital where I was born as well as the one where I was taken to for an operation as a 1-year old. Every single detail in vivid color and smells, it was horrifyingly real. I also saw what appeared to be my older future self lying alone in a hospital bed, waiting to die. And there were two female nurses around me. Instead of helping, they loudly laughed at my condition. Again it felt very real. It was as if I was on a time machine…ghosts of the past, present and future together.

        At least the past part is 100% true, I don’t know about the future but it scares me, man. I don’t want to die in a hospital bed. I hope those were just idle thoughts.

        There was NO WAY to escape from this uncomfortable reality during the entire trip which lasted maybe 4 to 5 hours. Each minute felt like two hours, maybe. Time had really slowed town. It was a complete torture.

        And then the breathing troubles, all the way to the point of wheezing. My heart was beating erratically. I knew I would die any moment. This would’ve really been a horrible way to die. I mean your brain is so confused you can’t even make your peace with God. You start doubting your very existence, and the reality of the world. There was no hope, no optimism. I think it’s what hell must be like.

        There was no one to reach out to for help. It was a DRUG DEN, the entire hostel. Everyone around me was stone. I requested another person to turn the lights on but my pleas felt on deaf ears. , I couldn’t even move.

        After a few hours, someone left the washroom door open and I could see the light. I immediately dragged myself to there, crawling like a snail. I had recovered some of my strength by now but still saw multiple realities. I splashed water on my face, several times. Yes, it helped greatly.

        Soon it was dawn time and my trip was thankfully over.

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